The Mailbox Memoirs

I. Wednesday, February 24th 2021

1200 Westmoreland Avenue, Apartment A

I would like to write myself out of poverty. To create stories so profound they move the masses to empty the shelves and bleed the e-commerce giants. Stand back and watch my bank account double and triple overnight. Who can imagine that sort of direct deposit? I know I can’t. And I am finding myself again sitting at my desk and longing for that which I don’t have. A better life, more money, a nicer place, and an easier job. Yet I am cursed with the dream and not the reality. The never ending chase for some semblance of an existence. The bottles of beer on my coffee table have now transitioned to empty bottles of gin, and the consistent stain on my breath and clothes reeks of disappointment and failure. Worst of all, my eyes always seem to be bloodshot when I look in the mirror.

Lately I have been filling the pages of this small black notebook with my poems, thoughts, and dreams. It seems to help. Writing helps me avoid the pistol tucked in the lock box of my closet, begging for me to pull it out. The pages the barrier between my death and my life. I am bounded to this depression and alcohol addiction by the weight of my empty pockets. My mind finds comfort in the pages. I haven’t been able to find solid work, and I seem to float from place to place without ever realizing where I am or what I am doing. So I write on these pages every night thinking, “Maybe one day I’ll be published.” It was always my dream to be a writer. But I know I will never be relevant enough to have someone else read these pages. My existence was destined from the beginning to be painfully normal. But the addictions, the depressions, and the thoughts of how easy it would be to end the pain are held at bay by the words on this page. I like how the pages are a person that you can have a conversation with. Even though in your head, you know its you writing the words.

I saw this writing competition online the other day and I thought about writing a story for it. As I started to write the story, I could not think of any characters or a unique plot. It collapsed into the same writing I always seem to produce. An endless examination of my position in life and how much I wish it was better. As if I am not creative or talented enough to produce something special. Or maybe I am simply self-absorbed. Too obsessed with my own life to offer a real literary contribution. Instead the passages become, as they are now, the endless longings of a wannabe writer.

I was listening to an audiobook in my car the other day that said “a man who writes for the future can live the realities of the past.” I like to think that is what this will end up being. That maybe one day I will find this notebook on a shelf or in a box somewhere and it will be a reminder of who I was before I obtained the life I wanted. And the words will humble me. Because I will remember the darkness of the valley and that I had the courage to make it out. I am not sure if I will have a chance to return to these pages, but I hope whoever I end up being, is different than who I am now.

II. Friday, March 4th, 2026

North Branch Correctional Institution

I did find this black notebook. But it wasn’t on a shelf, or in a box. It was mailed to me from the outside. As I read the last entry, I am filled with sadness. My old self was so confident that I would make it. I guess I did in a way. The ultimate euphoria, before a crashing downfall. How long ago it seems when I last wrote those words. Life presented me with an opportunity, and I took it. Not fully realizing that it would land me here. But it did. Gone are the dreams of old. And here lies the pains of the present. Awash with guilt and regret. Life did turn around though, even if it was only for a moment.

I find myself in the possession of this notebook once again because my court assigned therapist has told me it is important to recount the events as they happened, so I can come to terms with what I have done. I refused at first, but then told him I would write only on these pages. As they once were so important to me. It isn’t easy thinking about those days. And even reading my past entries I can feel the depression and addictions that I was experiencing. But sometimes a person becomes so tired, so fed up with feeling shitty, that the only way to break free of the monotony is through drastic means. It was through my unfulfilled desire to be a writer that the circumstances came about. The change was sudden. That’s what I remember most about it. As soon as I saw it I knew it was what I needed. My ticket to life. To liberation from that wretched valley that I was in. And to think I found it sitting inside of my mailbox.

February 26th, two days after the above entry, I had grabbed my mail after coming home from work. I noticed there was a yellow envelope not addressed to me. But to Hayley Goodwin of 1200 Westmoreland Avenue, Apartment B., a woman to whom I had never spoken to nor seen, though we lived next door to each other. The return address was blank and the package had a familiar looking protrusion. It was very clearly something rectangular. And I felt myself think for one second, that it could have been money. I laughed silently to myself but then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I swore it looked like a neat stack of wrapped bills. Side by side one another in the package. My heart started racing. Obviously, I knew that it was illegal to open someones mail, but realistically it would take some time for that person to figure out their mail was missing. And I figured if it was something stupid I could just reseal the package and put it on her doorstep, or on top of the mailboxes. I brought the envelope quickly inside, shut and locked the door. I tore open the envelope. And that was the moment of change. I felt it. When I reached my hand in, and pulled out two stacks of hundred dollar bills.

And these were not small stacks. I counted the money. And it was $20,000. This was the most money I had ever seen in my life. I had never seen on a computer screen or in my hands that kind of money. This was the chance I was looking for. I could finally commit myself to writing, quit my job, and try to achieve what I have always wanted. Being a published writer would have alleviated the sadness and the pain I was feeling. And it felt as everything materialized around me. For the first time in my life I could finally breathe. And in that moment of crystallization, it seemed as though there was only one way to ensure that I kept the money. I had the tools to do it. And of course I had thought about what it must feel like, to be on the run for that sort of crime. I had a passport, a car, $20,000 in cash, and the only thing standing in my way was a singular loose end. I rationalized my next steps as means to become a better writer. The story that I knew I could write after that experience meant I would finally have something worth buying. And the money to remain hidden.

I walked to my closet where I kept the pistol. Not fully committing to the idea until I opened the lock box, and saw the metal gleaming back at me. I had always thought if I ever opened that box I would I have killed myself. But instead I put on a fresh pair of socks and boots, a new shirt and a jacket, threw the envelope of money in a back pack. And when I picked up the loaded gun, I knew I had solidified the decision. Either way this went, I would be relevant. I stepped outside in the cool late February air. Turned to the right and knocked on the door of 1200 Westmoreland Avenue Apartment B and shot Hayley Goodwin three times in the chest.

I was arrested on March 4th, 2021 in Columbia, Maryland on charges of murder in the first-degree and sentenced to 30 years in prison without the possibility of parole for the murder of Hayley Goodwin. And from my cell in the North Branch Correctional Facility is where I write. The last words I wrote in this notebook were that I hope whoever I end up being, is different from who I am now. I am so sorry that turned out to be true.